"Apocolypse Please" by Muse plays in the background.

As this week has been devoted to noir and dreams, I'll end it with what might be the coolest dream quote I've ever had. And it came last night.

I was having a dream that I was living in colonial times. I was a lawyer fighting the case of my life. The opposing attorney was trying to convince the court that Thomas Jefferson was at heart an evil, evil man.

Then I put him in his place.

"Good Goddamn you, Tom Rooster," I said.

Since 5:30 this morning I've been saying "Good Goddamn you, Tom Rooster," to everything.

"Welcome to Starbucks."

"Good Goddamn you, Tom Rooster."

Maybe I should have thought of this earlier.
Maybe my ego is out of check ....
If you would like a non-horrible-looking-jpg and printer-friendly version of any Violent Stick People strip email me at violentstickpeople@gmail.com. I'd be glad to send it to you.
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Seriously, the only nightmare I have is that I forget I'm enrolled in a vague college history/social statistics course and my professor is very upset that I missed the final.

And then I burst through his torso! No, not really. He let's me do a make up test.
My nightmares are reasonable.
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My nightmare!
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In my worst nightmares the head of Jeff Gannon/James Guckert follows me around laughing.
(That's the on-top-of-shoulders head, not the he-seriously-charged-people-200-dollars-an-hour-for kind)

"Manwhore journalist!" I scream.
A giant snowman slowly lowers my degree onto his tongue like a hit of acid. His eyes start to spin and he asks me to join him on "the ride of a lifetime".

In my greatest dreams I'm the best NASCAR driver ever.
"You just go in circles the fastest, right? I'm so going to win."

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Who knows how this crazy story will end. I sure as hell don't.
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In my world, intentionally giving someone very hot soup is just as rude as it gets.

This weekend I picked up 3 of the Sin City graphic novels.
I inhaled them.
I have another Batman comic on order from Amazon coming to me postally.

Oh to be young at heart with a steady paycheck.

If I had ovaries I'd be on my third pony. Cupcake, Marilyn and Dandypants.
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This past week I've given up novels for a couple Batman graphic novels by Frank Miller.

I'm hooked like a junkie to the smack. Joe to his Camels.

And this story about Blockbuster getting sued for questionable promotion of its "End of Late Fees" campaign reminded me of why I'm a little cautious of the hype.

Blockbuster lately has reminded me of one of those guys who has given up cocaine and found Jesus. He's talking about getting saved and all you can think of is the time you saw him doing blow in a dim bar bathroom while he talked about getting his "knob jobbed".

That's Blockbuster. You can't really believe their good intentions because all you can think about is the time they threatened to take you to court for returning "Castaway" two days late.
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I often catch myself dropping an uncalled for "thank you" into many of my conversations at work. I like to think I'm brightening the future of Office America.
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This is a dream I had over the weekend. I woke up feeling very guilty.

In gay me news:
As you all probably know, my name is Brent Kinkade. Spelt with a "kade" instead of the most popular "caid".

My whole life people have called me Brian and misspelled my name. Even people who've known me for years will misspell my name when signing me up for a league sport.

"And at third base we have Brent K-I-N-C-A-I-D."

"Dude, you don't even know me!"

This sort of thing doesn't bother me any more. "Hello, Brian Kincortez," they say, and Brian Kincortez I become.

But, just out of curiosity I wondered what would happen if an old classmate or slightly retarded family member wanted to look me up.

What would they find if they Googled "Brent Kincaid".

GAY OIL PAINTINGS! "Blow Job Buddies Presents: Brent Kincaid's homo-erotic Paintings".

"I guess we really didn't know him," they'll say, "Dude, really liked painting men in leather with their stuff just hanging in the wind."
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I don't have anything bad to say about Ray Charles.

But, maybe the Grammys should just give their awards to whoever died in the past year and save us all the trauma of Steven Tyler trying hard to get your Mom hot.
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I drive past a car repair shop on my way to work that has a sign that honestly says "NOW HIRING. SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY!"
The exclamation point lets you know they're serious about any fooling around during the application process.

"So, what skills do you have that might help you out at this job?"

"Well, I can ... JUGGLE!"

In the past their sign has said things like "ALL BRAKEZ AND TIREZ ON SALE NOW!" or "WHEN YOUR CAR MAKES FUNNY NOISES THAT'S BAD!"

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When I was a kid I fell off my skateboard and smashed my face pretty good-like.
I got two root canals, a permenately scarred lip and a fake tooth because of it.

Damned life of a thrasher ... all appealing with your sexy dangers.

And people who talk like computers, beware! I'm starting a not-so-much political but more-so-much knife weilding group called "LOL I STABBED YOU" ... or LISY.
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Robot-me is programmed to make everyone feel happy about any situation and therefore ashamed to ask about my square metal head.

But then, the real me comes in and says something like, "This place smells. Smells like ball lovers."

And hey, pssst.... did you know that a neo-con "member"of the White House press crew is also the founder of a website that pimps out "hot military studs"?
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Hello, Soda, my old friend. I've come to sip of you again ...

A weekend trip to the Pacific Science Center has got me thinking that a robot version of myself might be the key to it all. Enough of this work and Matt Drudgery! I have pools to sink to the bottom of, books to read and C.D.s to covet.

I have started making plans for my trip to San Diego, which will not be stopped by Uncle Sam's purse snatching of my refund fund fundings.

The plans are still moving forward. So far, they are this:
1.) Buy a plane ticket.
2.) Don't go to Sea World. It's too expensive.

But there have to be sacrifices for the funding, right?


So, for the next month I will not be drinking. I will save my money and toxicity in a San Diego piggy bank.
I figure I will be able to save up $13,000 and a precious acre of liver.

Plus, after learning that I would weigh 784 lbs. on Jupiter it's probably a good idea to cut back on the P.B.R. and jerky buffets for a bit.

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This WOULD be insane! But for now it is just an insane warning on the dangers of vanity.

Buy a shirt and look pretty. Pretty smart that is.

In me news. My W-2's have arrived and my taxes must be done as soon as possible to fund my trip to San Diego in a little over a month.

But can it be that easy?
Of course not. Never.

One of my Dub Deuces has the wrong employer number on it.
Does this bother the employer? Of course not.
I'm the silly one for calling in and asking them to check on it.

"We're aware of the problem, but in all honesty you're the only one to call in and complain," they informed me.

"Oh, well then I best be quiet fo' ol' Boss get spooked." I will fight this now!

Update: They fixed it. Then Ol' Boss Sam fixed me. For the first time ever ... I owe.
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This poor woman is the soul of America.

She is tarnished and uglied by the advertising campaigns that push Ashlee Simpson, trucker hats and eyeliner.

Rise up Sally Flatchests and Molly Mascaras of the world! Turn off your television. March in the ugly masses that are you. Crush every mirror passed on your way to MTv headquarters and the executive boards of Maybeline.

Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's revolution time.

Update: Here's a t-shirt just for the ladies. Let those Madison Ave. bulimia-causers know you're on to their mind games.
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The idea is this ...

You get five girls. Four of them get to be beautiful.
One of them is horribly transformed into a monster, but she gets a million dollars.

Convince me that this is a bad idea. You can't.
"This is such a bad show," you'd all say as you tuned in every week with your popcorn.
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If I had a batshit friend I'd want a really batshit friend.

Update on the guy who heard cats: He looked like the guy from Godfather Pt. II who was flown in from Sicily to chump his brother for ratting on Michael.
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